Keep Talking
by caitlinalicia
Summary: [ Post RENT ] An internal monologue prompted by the death of a friend.


This isn't fair.

I don't care if nobody ever said that it would be--this goes beyond such a cliche.

This isn't fair because it goes against every unspoken agreement we've made in the past two years. Sure, death is inevitable; we weren't in denial about that--I had come to accept funerals and tears as routine because my life seemed to revolve around them lately; but this death was unexpected, unreasonable, unfathomable. This death went against everything we had planned. We had worked out how we would handle this death, the death that would ultimately end our friendship, and this wasn't how it was supposed to go. We planned on a hospital; we planned on nurses and doctors and IVs and a quietly fading beep in the background. We planned on screening all of those old piles of miscellaneous film cluttering the loft. We planned on talking; and maybe laughing, and maybe crying a bit. We planned on having time to recount all of the memories that had stayed with us over the years, even if we weren't sure why they did. We planned on saying goodbye.

We never got any of those, and now I know why I used to hate planning. Plans always fall through. Planning gives you expectations, and expectations only lead to disappointment.

It's not that I'm disappointed in you for dying. I don't think I've ever been disappointed in you, and I also don't think I ever told you that. I'm scared to think what else went unsaid. I'm scared that everything I never told you is somehow responsible for all of this. Maybe if I had told you how much I admire you--admire your passion and dedication--we would've kept talking. Maybe there were things you never told me, as well; but how will I ever know? Are we both to blame for the silence that fell over us in your last precious weeks? Maybe if we had said what we should've said, you'd somehow still be around. It seems ridiculous that somehow those words could've stopped you from leaving at the very second that you did, but what if? I can't be disappointed that we didn't talk for so many weeks, because we had so many years of noise before then that I will always be able to treasure. You realize eventually that the small things really are the things to hold onto. The sounds of film playing and guitars strumming and crowds screaming and divas protesting and bohos celebrating--things I was never disappointed in. How you could love so strongly and never show it, and how you had such an instinct to take care of others, and never cared when they took that for granted--I'm not disappointed in that, either. I am disappointed, however--more like devastated, actually--that I never got to say goodbye.

You deserved a proper goodbye.

This is all I have to offer in respect to that. It won't mean as much now; I had wanted to watch your face as I said it and hold your hand as my voice was the last thing to resonate in your ears. But I don't think I can survive without saying this.

I love you, I really do. You are my best friend (I won't use the past tense--there are some things, some titles, I won't let death take away), the person I'd sacrifice anything for. But I think I lost a bit of myself when you died, and I don't think I was prepared for that. If I'm going to be honest, I never thought I'd be around to watch you die. I took comfort in that idea that I wouldn't have to suffer that loss. I can handle a lot of loss, a lot of pain, and a lot of emptiness; but this is different, and I don't know how well I'm handling it. I'm sorry I never saw you as someone who could die just as easily as I could--I was too obsessed with my own mortality. I'm sorry that when we used to sit up on the roof and watch the sun rise, our eyes bloodshot and bodies tired, talking about a day like this one, that I never threw my arm around your shoulders and told you that maybe it wouldn't be as hard as we imagined. You never lied to me--you said it would get harder and it did; but maybe you needed to hear otherwise. Maybe you needed to be reassured for once. I think you got what you deserve, though, because this way, it wasn't hard for you at all. And you deserved not to suffer. It only lasted a second, they say, and then it was over. Now I'm shouldering everything we expected you to, and I have to say, I'm sorry that I never told you how brave you were for knowing the load this death would bring, and acting as if you weren't scared to carry it. I'm not that brave. I'm caving under it.

I'm really sorry that this isn't just another one of your little documentaries.

These tears would be gold on film, you'd say; and if you want, I won't stop crying. I'll surrender to the picture-esque shot of a man who has lost the only thing keeping him alive. That's what I realized, you know, when Collins called and said, "Roger... I saw his scarf. The alley was taped off and the body was covered in a sheet... but I swear, I saw his scarf peaking out from underneath it"; that even though my arms were clutching Mimi to me, she was never the reason I held on and pushed my body to keep fighting. I think I had convinced myself that Mimi was my reason, so when that space formed between us, it seemed okay. I don't know if I've ever been so wrong. But I've decided that I'm going to keep dying. No more trying to save myself--it's not worth it, because even though Mimi is squeezing my hand and looking at me with her wide, teary eyes, trying to comfort me; her touch is only painful. It almost makes me sick, because all she ever did was love me, and now all I want to do is blame her for all of this. I need to blame someone! She was hungry and weak and I had to stay with her, so I asked you to go get her some dinner. If she hadn't been so hungry and weak, you wouldn't have agreed... and you'd be sitting in a pew, mourning me. Because of her, my last words to you were: "And don't get anymore fuckin' Captain Crunch". You gave me a sheepish smile, shrugged, and closed the door behind you; and because of her, that smile is going to haunt me.

I'd never tell her that, though. She's fading again and doesn't deserve it.

But everything still comes down to one blunt, scratched up point: you left the loft that night and never came back. And you never will. You are never coming home, but you left too many things behind to allow me to ignore that truth. You left your fucking camera. You never go anywhere without that thing, but sure enough, it was lying on the kitchen table when I stumbled in there the next morning. Why? It's like you knew something was going to happen and didn't want anyone to be able to think, if only for a moment, that perhaps you had captured the horror on film. It's like you didn't want anyone to know the details. All I know is that your body was found by an officer off duty, crumbled next by a dumpster with two shots to the back of the head--wallet and jacket gone; groceries, too, depending on if you were coming or going. I know that you would've gone unidentified if it weren't for Collins. And that's all you gave us.

We were supposed to say goodbye on a deathbed, but it wasn't supposed to be yours. You weren't supposed to die, Mark. 


End file.
